The year is 2013 and I am in second grade. My family and I go on vacation in Europe for Spring Break. One of the places we visit is Paris. On our last night, we go to a market down the street and buy our food for dinner from the vendors and made it back at the apartment we are renting for our stay. We eat our dinner and are talking and laughing at the table as we enjoy the delicious food. We get to the point where we are all slowing down with the eating and we realize that there is a good amount of food leftover that we can’t finish.

“We bought way too much food and it’s our last night so we can’t take it with us, but I feel guilty having to throw it away,” says my dad.

While we were out at the market, eight-year-old me noticed that there were a large number of people on the streets, huddled in their coats trying to stay warm.

“We could give the leftover food to the homeless people on the street outside, they would probably want to eat it,” I suggest.

My parents thought it was a great idea so my dad and I pack up the food that we had not been eating from and we bundle up in our coats to go outside while my sister and my mom stay back. 

I specifically remember seeing one homeless man with fewer blankets and a smaller coat than all the other people in the area. We walk up to him and I hold out the container of turkey, potatoes, and other side dishes that there were and ask him if he would like a warm meal. 

The man is very grateful and he thanks me in French. He begins to smile and I can tell that it had been a while since he had brushed his teeth. I feel good because I was able to provide a small upside when he had obviously gone through so much.